


When His Pants Begin to Go

by missingMelbs



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3888607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingMelbs/pseuds/missingMelbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is here to do some gardening. Phryne is drooling. Fate intervenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When His Pants Begin to Go

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading a bit of Henry Lawson poetry recently. When I read the poem of the same title, I knew I had to write this fic. This is my first posted fic. Please be gentle. :) Hope you enjoy! Link to the full poem:  
> http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/lawson-henry/when-your-pants-begin-to-go-0108035

As Phryne opened the door for him, she gaped, incredulous. "Jack! What on earth are you wearing?"

Jack gave his lop-sided grin as he replied, "'A day in the garden' may mean a day of leisure and strolling about, for you high society types, Miss Fisher, but I prefer to get my hands dirty. Appropriate clothing is, therefore, in order." 

He could feel Miss Fisher's eyes burning their way up and down his body as she took in his age-softened work shirt with its open collar and sleeves rolled halfway up his muscular forearms, and moleskin work pants, which admittedly had seen better days, held up by braces which were not covered today by waistcoat or jacket. His feet were encased in boots, completing the transformation from the neatly pressed, sartorially elegant Detective Inspector to the rough, slightly shabby laborer standing outside her door.

Phryne still hadn't said anything else, and seemed lost in her own thoughts with her gaze fastened on him, pupils slightly dilated. Jack raised an eyebrow, "If I'd known this was what it took to keep you quiet, Miss Fisher, believe me I would have suggested it before."

Finally she drew in a ragged breath, and managed, "Just admiring the view, Inspector. I believe I may need to have my tea on the patio."

Jack blushed. How did she always manage to turn the tables on him? He hastily jammed his work gloves in his back pocket, and made his way through to the kitchen door. Once outside, he headed to the garden shed, making a mental 'to do' list as he went. The roses needed to be cut back and covered for the winter. The young trees needed to be wrapped to protect the bark from animals. The tender bulbs needed to be dug up and stored, and there were a few spring bulbs to be planted. Everything needed a layer of mulch. 

In the shed, he extricated the wheelbarrow, snagging his moleskin pants on some chicken wire in the process. He clucked to himself - these trousers were almost done in, and he really needed to get a new pair, but they were so comfortable he hated to part with them. He found the clippers, a pitchfork and the spade, and took the tools with him out into the gardens. 

He breathed in deeply, enjoying the smells of late autumn. He had commented to Phryne a week or so ago that there was frost expected soon, and her gardens should be readied for winter before long. Mr. Butler had been pouring tea, and had spoken up, "Forgive me for intruding, Miss Fisher, Inspector, but do you garden, Sir? Only I overheard Mr. Johnson and Mr. Yates speaking about the gardens the other day, and, well, I don't like to speak out of turn, but I'm not sure… that their areas of expertise extend to gardening."

Phryne had turned a curious eye to Jack, and he had cleared his throat self-consciously before admitting that, yes, he knew a bit about gardening. The truth was, he had spent a lot of his free time in the early years of his marriage, working in the gardens of the cottage he shared with Rosie. The gardens had been his pride and joy, a carefully maintained riot of color and scent. They were the one thing he had wished he could take with him after the divorce, and the one thing he missed at the flat where he now resided. The idea of spending a day working in Phryne's beautiful gardens was enchanting. He didn't want to seem overeager, but he had casually volunteered to come by the next weekend and 'putter around a bit.' 

That was today, and Jack set to work with the clippers, cutting back the rose bushes, enjoying the fresh air and warmth of the sun on his shoulders, and trying not to notice that Phryne had followed him out of the house and was standing outside the kitchen door, drinking her tea and watching him. He thought it must have to do with his clothes; she hadn't expected him to turn up in workmen's clothing. But had she really expected him to garden in his usual three piece? Quite apart from the heat - from both the sun and the exertion - there was the dirt, and the freedom of movement, he thought, as he leaned forward at the waist, reaching for a branch at the very back of the bed. 

He supposed he approached his friendship with Miss Fisher in a way similar to gardening, cultivating wild beauties, providing support for the climbers, holding back a rose only to keep it from overextending itself, enjoying the intoxicating scents… He shook his head, pulling himself out of such fanciful imaginings.

He was leaning further, for that just out-of-reach branch, when he felt a stab of pain in the front of his hip. Looking down he realized he had managed to stab himself with a thorn. This particular rose bush had some rather vicious ones. Good thing it hadn't been a few inches to the left, he thought, then hurriedly banished that thought, glancing toward the house. Phryne stood as if frozen, her cup halfway to her open mouth, her eyes wide and dark, watching him. He straightened quickly, plucking the thorn from his flesh with a wince, and examining the spot. Damn, he thought, he must have jerked slightly when he felt it; there was a tiny hole and a spot of blood. The hole wasn't an issue for now, but he knew small holes had a way of getting bigger. Ah well, he shrugged, he'd already decided he needed a new pair.

His eyes caught a slight movement, and he turned to see Phryne sauntering toward him. Part of him tensed. She looked like a cat stalking its prey. "Miss Fisher," he greeted her, trying to sound nonchalant. 

She came much too close for his comfort, and reached out to touch the small tear over his pelvic bone. His breath caught in his throat at the intimacy of the touch. "I fear you've been wounded, Inspector."

Jack swallowed, and reminded himself to breathe. "Just a flesh wound, Miss Fisher," he said softly. "All part of the job." Part of him needed desperately to step away from her, but the rest of him relished this game, so he held his ground.

She stepped even closer; he could feel her warm breath on his lips, and he swallowed again and closed his eyes momentarily. "I appreciate your dedication, Jack. I'm sure your efforts here will result in breathtaking pleasure," she smoldered at him, her words dripping with innuendo. His breath was coming far too fast, and he could feel a bead of sweat trickling down his back. Other parts of his body were responding to her nearness too, and he prayed she wouldn't notice. Suddenly he bit back a moan, as he felt her ghost a touch down his length through his trousers! He stepped back, hastily turning to hide his arousal from her, and blushing furiously.

He covered by grabbing the wheelbarrow, and wheeling it toward the gladiolas and cannas and the other more tropical bulbs that wouldn't survive the winter, half hoping Phryne wouldn't follow, and half hoping she would. He couldn't believe what had just happened. She had touched him! He willed himself to calm down, but he was quivering with desire now. There had been signals, of course. It had become obvious in recent months that they wanted each other, that they both were interested in moving beyond friendship, into the realm of something more. But so far, they had both resisted the temptation of falling into bed. He knew she didn't 'do' commitment, and she knew he didn't 'do' casual flings. So far, that had stymied them. Neither of them wanted to give up their friendship and partnership, and neither knew how to move past it without compromising their values.

But, dear God, if she did that again, heaven help them, because he was at his breaking point. 

Phryne watched him turn and stalk off. She couldn't believe what she had just done. She had touched him! She really hadn't meant to, but oh, God, how she wanted him! She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing, but she was quivering with desire. He looked incredible today, all casual and disheveled, primal and strong, the muscled body and tight buttocks as he bent over. She glanced back at the house, then looked after Jack and made up her mind. Today was the day, and consequences be damned!

Jack was trying to refocus his body through work, loosening the soil around the bulbs with the pitchfork. As he leaned over to pick up a bulb, he heard an indrawn hiss of breath, and looked back, startled. Phryne! He stood quickly, tossing the bulb into the wheelbarrow, and leaving the fork stuck in the ground. He was breathing hard again, watching as she approached him. She had a determined look on her face, one that brooked no argument, and he eyed her warily. 

When she reached him, her gaze swept over him again, lingering where her fingers had so recently, then moving up to his lips as she closed the remaining gap between them. She lifted her hand to his face, and traced his lips with one finger as she whispered his name, making him shiver. He glanced at her lips, then back to her eyes, mutely asking permission, not daring to breathe. 

She gave the merest hint of a nod and met him halfway, their lips barely brushing before they pulled back. The world didn't come crashing down, they noted, and with that realization, they kissed again. Jack was mesmerized by the softness of her lips and the warmth of her mouth as he explored her with his tongue. At first, he was hesitant to touch her, with his hands covered with soil from her garden, but as she pressed herself to him urgently, he forgot to think and his hands roamed freely over her body, finally touching where he hadn't dared before.

Her hands were busy too, enjoying the feel of him. The firm, taut muscles she'd only seen hints of before except for one afternoon in Queenscliff. But this time, oh, this time she could run her hands along the hard planes of his body, rather than just imagining it. As she pressed closer, she could feel the hard length of him against her belly, trapped between them, and she gave a little moan, grinding against him. 

He gasped at the feel of her thrusting against him, and thought he might come right then and there like a school boy. He tried to pull back slightly, to give himself some space to regain control of his body before he embarrassed himself. But as he pulled back, she surged forward, and he felt the edge of the wheelbarrow behind him. He lost his balance, and tried desperately to keep from falling, twisting around, reaching out with one hand. He crashed into the wheelbarrow, tipping it over with a loud clatter, but the sound he heard most clearly of all wasn't the wheelbarrow. It was the sound of tearing fabric. And then the sound of laughter.

He had no idea if he had injured himself or her and frankly he didn't care at that moment. The one clear thought he had was the awful realization that his battered and beloved moleskin trousers had given out spectacularly, tearing a gaping hole in the crotch, leaving him exposed for all the world to see. Jack was mortified, but he was used to thinking on his feet. He ripped off his shirt, wrapping it around him to cover the torn trousers, as he raced to his car. He felt like a fool and a coward, but he couldn't face Phryne right now, let alone her staff. He started the car, and took off, driving rather more like Phryne Fisher than he would admit.

Phryne finally managed to get to her feet, still shaking with laughter, even though she knew she faced an uphill battle with Jack, trying to mend (HA! 'Mend!' one corner of her mind crowed) this catastrophe. The poor, dear, beautiful man! She knew he had taken a terrible blow to his pride, and his flight would only have made him feel worse. Damn! Of all the rotten luck! She had no idea how to approach him about this. Worse, she knew she was likely to burst out laughing the very next time she saw him; there was no way she would be able to pretend it hadn't happened, even to save his pride. 

***

She had staked out his home long ago, telling herself it was 'just in case' she needed him during those hours when he wasn't at the station. Now she was glad she had as she stood nervously outside his door, working up the courage to knock. She had finally lifted her hand when the door opened and there was Jack, trying to look stern, and mostly looking resigned. "I should have known you would track me down," he said, stepping back and gesturing her to come in.

Phryne entered the flat, setting down the bag she was carrying before removing her cloche and wrap, and handing them to Jack. When he had hung them in the closet, he turned and gestured her to a seat, moving to a decanter on the sideboard and pouring them each a measure of whisky. She sat on the loveseat, and waited, fiddling with her handbag. Jack handed her a drink, and took a seat opposite her. Neither had said a word, and the silence was beginning to be uncomfortable. Finally, Phryne picked up the bag she had brought and handed it to him wordlessly.

Jack raised an eyebrow, but took it, and peered into it somewhat suspiciously. He reached in and removed a book. "I expected a new pair of trousers," he said finally.

Phryne admitted, "I thought about it. But I decided you had suffered enough humiliation without my attempting to obtain your trouser size without your knowledge."

Jack snorted and shook his head, "Thank you for restraining yourself." He looked at the book. It was Henry Lawson's When I Was King. He quirked an eyebrow at her. Then he opened it to the page she had marked, and burst out laughing. After a moment, she joined him.

When His Pants Begin To Go

When you wear a cloudy collar and a shirt that isn't white,  
And you cannot sleep for thinking how you'll reach to-morrow night,  
You may be a man of sorrows, and on speaking terms with Care,  
But as yet you're unacquainted with the Demon of Despair;  
For I rather think that nothing heaps the trouble on your mind  
Like the knowledge that your trousers badly need a patch behind.

I have noticed, when misfortune strikes the hero of the play,  
That his clothes are worn and tattered in a most unlikely way;  
And the gods applaud and cheer him while he whines and loafs around,  
And they never seem to notice that his pants are mostly sound;  
But, of course, he cannot help it, for our mirth would mock his care,  
If the ceiling of his trousers showed the patches of repair.


End file.
